


Drenched

by Callisto



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, First Kiss, M/M, Post Sweet Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Once at Hutch's, Starsky slept on the couch as they both knew he would, while Hutch pottered and spritzed. His plants had not all taken well to Hutch's frequent absences and a few required immediate attention. Which was fine by Hutch. Nothing shifted his mind into neutral like his plants, and he was soon lost in the contentment of his greenhouse. So much so that he didn't notice Starsky, leaning against the doorframe watching him, an almost wistful expression on his face.</i></p><p><i>"Such devotion, Blondie. Wish I was a Boston fern."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Drenched

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to 'Layers'.

It took a while, but that was the moment Starsky went back to later if he thought about when things changed. Something shifted and fell from Hutch's shoulders that quiet afternoon. It was a lighter, somewhat looser man who began to emerge from that time spent listening to the steady rhythm of a heart beneath his ear.

The first sign of this change came two days later. Hutch opened the door to Starsky's apartment and stood at the entrance waiting for his partner to notice that he had cut his hair and shaved his mustache.

Starsky looked up from the case notes he was trying to stay awake over and did the expected double take. He pulled himself off the couch and slowly made his way over, caught offguard by the sheer...hutchness...of the man filling his doorway. Aware that Hutch was waiting for the inevitable quip to be over and done with, all that came to Starsky's mind were the honey tones of Sweet Alice, and he heard himself say,

"Well, there he is. Handsome Hutch."

Only he was too close by then and the tone was too soft to resemble anything like a quip.

Four days after that, Hutch turned up late. He was flushed, breathless and moving stiffly. Worried that the line of duty had nailed them yet again, Starsky's heart tripped, and then tripped again when Hutch laughed, brushed off his anxious hands and pulled him into a brief, sweat-filled clinch. As Hutch let him go, he explained that it was Vinnie's fault for not taking it easy on him his first day back at the gym. And Starsky stood there, caught in laughter he had no idea he'd missed until he heard it.

He heard it again later that same evening. His medications were gradually being cut as his dependence on physiotherapy increased. It was a welcome sign of real recovery, but it sometimes left him tired and out of sorts by the end of the day. The discomfort was a little too much to allow him to escape into sleep, yet it wasn't quite enough to justify a strong painkiller. Hutch emerged whistling from the shower after his first workout and moved with purpose into the kitchen. He then prepared a gourmet meal with an enthusiasm and noise which kept Starsky's eyes tracking him back and forth across the kitchen from his vantage point on the couch, his own aches and pains dimming as his smile grew.

Those aches and pains returned after he ate too much. It was Hutch's fault, the meat fell from the bone just the way Starsky liked it and he had two servings. Digesting like that took it out of him, and he became aware of a shiver of perspiration which made him cold. He lay on the couch trying to concentrate on a Batman adventure, when the comic was snatched from his hands. He growled something pissy – he was in no mood for anything self-righteous – but he needn't have worried. Hutch threw the afghan across him, settled himself under Starsky's calves and ankles, and proceeded to read aloud from the page Starsky was on.

At first Starsky was sure of mockery, but as Hutch turned to him, eyebrow raised to check if he had pronounced a name correctly, Starsky realized it was all being done just for him. To entertain him and take his mind off his ills. At that point he almost forgot to respond appropriately around the lump in his throat, but when Hutch cackled like The Joker he had no choice. The laughter loosened them both. Hutch kept it up for a while, but some time later he began to soften his tone and smooth his hand up and down the blanketed legs. Starsky dozed off that night to a warmth and tempo he had seldom felt since childhood.

 

Perhaps the surest sign of peace in the Hutchinson soul was that he stopped spending every waking moment outside work at Starsky’s place. He tried to get to the gym at least three times a week, occasionally stopped off at Huggy's for a beer and a catch-up, and even took to spending a couple of evenings a week in his apartment alone. There he pottered among the ferns, spritzing and spraying, and cooked himself simple meals.

He managed a date or two, but these Starskyless actions were not so successful. His heart could find no real reason for them and each time he found his attention drifting. He ended them early with a chaste kiss at the door and took himself back to his partner, the only person outside Huggy and Dobey he was interested in sharing time with. He figured his social life would kick in again one day of its own accord, but that thought brought with it no anxiety so he let it go and put up with Starsky's chiding. "Shrivel up if you don't use it, Hutchinson."

It was as if Hutch finally trusted Starsky's heart to keep the man it belonged to alive in his absence. Ever since the hospital, fear had clenched Hutch like a constant fist. Whenever he saw Starsky after any time of separation – even room to room – what he felt first was relief. Relief that it had not stopped again. And then anxiety. Anxiety that it would. But now those irrational bursts faded under the memory of that warm pulse under his ear.

And it seemed that the warm pulse under his ear had unlocked something else. Neither had ever had much use for personal space where the other was concerned. But from that day forth it was as if they were trying to close the gap of the months before the shooting in the most literal way possible. When they were together, they were together. They never even sat apart, although Starsky had two armchairs that went with his couch. The very nature of Starsky's condition had already closed the space between them considerably. He simply required to be held up and eased down in the way of a person who found such things difficult. And outside his physiotherapists and nurses, it was Hutch he said he wanted to have these things done by. Yet as Starsky grew stronger and less dependent, he still put a hand out to be held up and eased down by his partner, well after the need had passed. They both knew it and said nothing. Starsky leaned against Hutch whenever he damn well pleased, and Hutch let him.

A month passed and Starsky asked to spend the weekend at Hutch's because his four walls and couch were making him stir crazy. Hutch informed him it was still going to be four walls and a couch, just different colors, but Starsky said that was fine by him and anyway, Hutch could take him to Huggy's first. It was a Saturday and Huggy was doing brisk business with a lunch-time crowd. Both faces lit up when he and Starsky saw each other, and Hutch left them to it, content to sit back and bask in the animated chatter his partner was suddenly capable of. Of course, he tired quickly, but it was a contented Starsky who let his partner steer him out after the three mouthfuls of beer Hutch had pretended not to notice Huggy slip him.

On the way to Hutch's, Starsky wound down the passenger window and tilted his head up and out. Hutch noticed and drove as slowly as he could, all the while feeling that something of tremendous importance was taking place that day. He was trying to analyze what that might be when Starsky turned his head and shot him a look and a laugh of such dazzling vitality that Hutch almost forgot to drive.

The look intensified, "I'm just...happy, Hutch." He squeezed his hand down hard on his partner's leg. "Than I've been in a very long time, you know?"

Hutch did, but couldn't say so. Instead, he took his right hand off the wheel, reached for the hand on his leg and held the warm fingers in his own the rest of the way.

Once at Hutch's, Starsky slept on the couch as they both knew he would and Hutch pottered and spritzed. His plants had not all taken well to Hutch's frequent absences and a few required immediate attention. Which was fine by Hutch. Nothing shifted his mind into neutral like his plants, and he was soon lost in the contentment of his greenhouse. So much so that he didn't notice Starsky, leaning against the doorframe watching him, an almost wistful expression on his face.

"Such devotion, Blondie. Wish I was a Boston fern."

Hutch glanced up, startled. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. He wondered just what it was about Starsky's words and posture that lost him his train of thought. Then he eyed the mister in his hand and got it back. Grinning, Hutch took a step forward, pointed the nozzle at Starsky and pressed. A fine spray of droplets sprinkled into the air and over his partner. Starsky simply waited under it, closing his eyes until the last drop fell. He opened his eyes and found that Hutch had moved closer.

"So that's what you call devotion, Hutch?" Starsky pressed his lips together to moisten them from the droplets, never taking his eyes off his partner.

Hutch took another step forward, aware that a last barrier of some kind was about to be breached and feeling nothing but a distant gratitude. He smiled, depressed the nozzle upwards and another fine mist descended. As if on a reflex, both men tilted their faces up and closed their eyes as it dissipated. By the time they opened their eyes again, they were in each other's breath. Neither stepped away.

"You goin' somewhere with this, or am I just getting wet?" Starsky's eyes held the merest hint of a challenge and it was Hutch's turn to moisten his lips as his heart picked up speed.

When he spoke, it was into Starsky's mouth, "Going somewhere, I guess." And then Starsky could wait no more and pulled him in.

There among the ferns and another late afternoon sun, a different kind of healing took place.  
******


End file.
